If you’re seeking a higher form of cinematic worship, look no further than the recently released Dietrich-Von Sternberg Blu-ray collection from Criterion. This set unveils all six Hollywood masterpieces they crafted together (including The Blue Angel), before diverging paths and evolving cinematic tastes diminished the demand for such exquisitely nuanced artistry on the world stage. Fortunately, we have these six gems. To truly love cinema is to revere these films; to do otherwise is to be lost in mere escape or stark reality. These films transcend both, existing in a realm of pure cinematic essence. If most movies are akin to aspirin, these are pure laudanum – a profound, immersive experience with no return ticket. This is cinema for the ‘suicide passengers,’ as the captain aptly puts it to Adolphe Menjou in the opening scene of their inaugural film, encapsulating the fatalistic allure of these works. They are a plunge into the abyss of perfect beauty, intoxicatingly high, with the understanding that ascent may be impossible. Even in this descent, there’s a sense of divine acceptance, a prayer answered in the form of this set, long wished for since a 2013 review of Scarlet Empress. This collection is enriched by insightful essays from luminaries like Self-styled Siren and the brilliant Gary Giddins, whose jazz writings resonate even without prior jazz knowledge. With such profound commentary already available, adding further critical analysis seems almost redundant. However, one crucial academic perspective remains absent, a lens that would complete the set, albeit one that might be considered overly intense or provocative. Its absence creates a critical imbalance. This missing piece is the “masochistic spectator” theory, a counterpoint to Mulveyan male gaze, championed by the eminent feminist film theorist Galyn Studlar, as explored in the Verboten Masochist Supplement concerning this very Criterion Dietrich box.
Let us then use this occasion to delve into the captivating allure of Dietrich’s features, costumes, and ethereal coolness, as perceived through the Studlaryan masochistic gaze of Josef Von Sternberg. Join me as we examine these films, one by one, in their revitalized format. For despite countless viewings, these films remain perpetually fresh and intoxicating, particularly the initial trio. Indeed, thanks be to cinema’s gods.
Giddins astutely observes that the six films divide into two distinct segments. The first three coalesce around Dietrich embodying a singular, supremely cool persona. The latter three see Dietrich inhabit diverse characters, each echoing her signature nonchalance but ensnared within conventional womanhood and soap opera narratives (with the possible exception of the final film, which hints at Buñuelian themes and paranoid sexuality). They echo the paths of her female contemporaries, trapped in endless cycles of market-driven melodramas: rags-to-riches tales, mothers torn between domesticity and glamour, women forced into prostitution for survival, only to be judged unfit mothers by the sudden reappearance of wealthy absentee fathers. Perhaps due to a male perspective, these narratives hold less appeal. It feels incongruous to witness Dietrich portraying characters unworthy of her transcendent grace.
Fortunately, the initial trilogy of Dietrich films in this collection showcases her as one of cinema’s most iconic figures, unapologetically larger-than-life in her manipulative charm and suicidal tendencies, both chameleon-like and steadfastly sublime. No actress approached her enigmatic coolness until Lauren Bacall’s arrival in 1944, who even subtly nods to Morocco by borrowing the “to buy a new hat” line, as if to announce the arrival of a worthy successor after a decade-long wait.
Extending Giddins’ point, these first three films could even be viewed as a trilogy. The recurring male lead, essentially the same man, evolves from a Foreign Legion private to a Russian Secret Service colonel, and finally, a British army chief surgeon in Shanghai Express. In each film, the level of maturity and strategic game-playing subtly shifts, while Dietrich’s character correspondingly develops, culminating in a form of happy resolution, albeit with a rather conventional British officer.
MOROCCO
(1930) ****
Criterion Image: B
Upon first viewing Criterion’s Morocco (1930), a wave of disappointment washed over me. Hopes were high that the HD upgrade would include a remastering, yielding deeper blacks and reduced faded greys. However, Criterion’s approach often leans towards adding grain while leaving the underlying image largely untouched. This edition appears virtually identical to the old DVD, perhaps even slightly softer, as if the pervasive smoke and bright lights rendered everyone slightly vision-impaired. At least Morocco now resides in a deserving format, even if the dream of a superior upgrade persists.
Similar to the subsequent two films in this collection, Ms. Dietrich begins as a world-weary, effortlessly cool seductress, larger than life, defying gender norms, belonging to no one. Here, as cabaret singer Amy Jolly, she arrives at Morocco’s port – a ‘suicide passenger’ on a one-way journey, as the captain remarks – to fulfill an extended cabaret engagement. Before disembarking, she captures the attention of Monsieur La Bessiere (Adolphe Menjou), who swiftly makes his move. This time, he isn’t an officer, but a wealthy, refined, and influential figure in the French-occupied city. He’s also devoid of jealousy, too experienced in affairs of the heart for such illusions. He indulges her every whim, even facilitating her pursuit of true love when he is injured. Amy’s true affection lies with Legionnaire Pvt. Brown, portrayed by Gary Cooper, who is her male counterpart – a figure adored by all women, never refusing an advance, consequently juggling affections from his commanding officer’s wife down to the Arab women beckoning from windows, arranging rendezvous via hand gestures amidst the regimented streets. Like Amy, Brown is disillusioned with love and the opposite sex, yet possesses an unwavering sense of honor. Though reserved in his characteristic Cooper manner, he boldly defends Amy, even hinting at implicating his senior officer’s wife in the investigation of an attack orchestrated out of jealousy. While the officer acknowledges Brown’s discretion in protecting his wife’s name, he nonetheless names her and orders Brown into a perilous death march into sniper territory, intending to eliminate him under the guise of enemy fire. Fortuitously, an Arab bullet fells the CO, resolving Brown’s predicament. Yet Brown, ever the composed figure, doesn’t celebrate this demise. It is merely blind luck. He refrains from going AWOL to rush to Amy’s side, aware that such impetuousness would diminish him in her eyes, unlike Charles Boyer in 1936’s Garden of Allah. Accustomed to women’s overtures, Brown’s lack of initiative becomes his ultimate transgression. His presence is so intense for Amy that she oscillates between wanting him to leave and desiring to leave him moments after being together. Upon his arrival at her studio apartment – “it looks different… now,” he observes, implying past liaisons with singers in this very room, a space the club provides for its performers. She retorts, “there’s a Foreign Legion of women, too… but we have no wound stripes,” alluding to the coveted, invisible scars of cinematic masochists. He departs, but she soon follows, craving another parting, and it is in the streets that their troubles escalate. Had they remained in her room, they might have been safe. But such is their addiction to goodbyes, needing constant partings.
It is Cooper and Dietrich who share the most poignant romance in these six films, for both are masters of subtle gestures, an acting nuance Dietrich wouldn’t find matched again – Cooper’s near head-bumps on low doorways, his swift exits. Each embodies the reticence of genuine emotion versus the practiced ease of superficial seduction, all while adhering to a rigorous moral code – a true Hawksian or Jules Furthian ethic, surpassing the bourgeois morality of marital fidelity. In each other, Jolly and Brown find kindred spirits, sharing a sense of dissolute allure coupled with unwavering honor. Both are accustomed to evoking strong feelings in others, more so than experiencing them themselves; they are comfortable observing the dramas of warring lovers. But now, they are too evenly matched. Neither successfully aggresses; perhaps they have forgotten how. They only know how to evade true emotion: “you better go now. I’m beginning to like you,” she confesses, the ultimate compliment being to dismiss him because of her affection. His riposte, “I wish I met you ten years ago,” is equally profound. The only way to validate its sincerity is to leave. Pursuing a relationship would invalidate the sentiment. His love is proven only by leaving before anything truly begins.
It’s challenging to revisit my initial ambivalence towards their reticence in Morocco. I initially misconstrued it, thinking them both foolish and blaming censorship for their lack of connection. Yet, during a long-distance relationship, marked by longing but lacking spark in person, their dynamic resonated. We were passionately connected via phone and email, yet platonic in person. Now, with age and the prevalence of internet-era long-distance romances, that self-inflicted torment, while still absurd, becomes understandable in ways it wasn’t before. The ever-parting sacrifice in Morocco now resonates. This is cinematic love – something that thrives in absence. We can fall for Dietrich, and Cooper, but they remain unattainable. They are unaware of us in the darkness, yet they stir something profound within us. This isn’t a lust-driven film; it’s about dares and defiance, where characters defy mundane expectations. Rather than become La Bessiere’s wife, Amy discards her heels and follows her man into the desert, barefoot into the relentless winds.
Some critics interpret this renouncement as Amy’s demise, suggesting she won’t survive. I once viewed it as romantic, but now, nothing feels truly final. La Bessiere will likely wait under the arch, anticipating her blistered feet. She’ll probably pause, expecting his car. He will come. This is evident in his gentlemanly gesture of driving her to check on Brown in various hospitals after hearing of his injury. (Why they hike everywhere when limousines are available is a mystery – joining them willingly implies a unique masochism). And in his gentlemanly handshake, “may I wish you good luck?”
Their pivotal encounter occurs when Amy finds Brown not at the hospital, but at a bar with an Arab girl wearing his hat – a subtle echo of Amy’s own gender-bending persona – drunkenly carving “Amy” with a heart into the table. Upon her arrival, he conceals it with playing cards. He greets her coldly, and she mirrors his composure, feigning mild surprise at finding him there. His warmest gesture is another evasion – his regiment is recalled for a dawn march: “Come see me off tomorrow.” She does, of course, despite dawn being anathema to night owls, another masochistic indulgence.
This strange duality of absence/presence is our introduction to Von Sternberg’s masochism, elevated beyond mere degradation. The loss of love becomes the objective, surpassing the act of being together. Deserting his unit and eloping with Amy to the Riviera might seem appealing, but it would diminish their love, reducing it to a pair of attractive con artists. In this masochistically unfulfilled state, it can endure eternally. He writes on the mirror – “I changed my mind. Good luck!” – eloquence for a soldier. A cautionary parallel exists in Garden of Allah, where Boyer, a monk, breaks his vows for Dietrich, only to be guilt-ridden into returning, having tasted life beyond the monastery. Their love intensifies in absence, yet his willingness to betray his vows paradoxically diminishes her respect. Then there’s The Blue Angel, made in Berlin, where the professor joins the show to marry Naughty Lola, descending into clownish humiliation, peddling dirty postcards he once confiscated. This fate seems unimaginable for Cooper, yet what alternative exists outside service? Selling apples? His honor would vanish, she’d soon be pregnant, berating his unemployment as he drinks and fumes.
Another unique touch: their developing romance is conveyed through measured dialogue, possibly dictated by early sound technology (fewer words, more pauses in 1930), or perhaps Von Sternberg’s aesthetic. Pauses amplify unspoken emotion, heightened by the leads’ luminosity and evocative sound effects. Like The Blue Angel, dialogue clarity limitations don’t hinder diegetic sound – bird calls, distant Arab songs, prayers, and street chatter, military bugles and drums fading in and out (1). Von Sternberg’s crowd scenes possess intricate movement and detail rarely seen elsewhere.
Surprisingly, this is only one of three instances of Dietrich singing cabaret in these films (Blonde Venus, The Devil is a Woman being the others), a missed opportunity given her natural element. Her cabaret beginnings, after a wrist injury ended her violin career, are evident. The Morocco club songs, with fans, the tuxedoed orchestra leader wiping his brow with his baton hand, are iconic. An extended cabaret sequence, perhaps forty minutes of her interacting with the diverse clientele, would be cinematic heaven, akin to Criterion’s MONTEREY POP box set for Hendrix and Redding performances.
LATEST VIEWING – May 27, 2019
First time noticing Cooper’s lusty apple-eating close-up; fleeting glimpses of a topless native girl as legionnaires march past; Dietrich’s ghostly gaze at Cooper as she closes the door, hypnotic. The screen is always rich in detail, wondering if cinematic masochism began with Von Sternberg. Was it fueled by jealousy of Dietrich’s lovers, of whom he was one? Stories circulate of him painting landscapes on her lawn as Gary Cooper arrived for trysts. Cooper, too, suffered, moping in possessive despair. He missed the German polymorphous kinkiness – Dietrich sending love letters to her husband Rudy Sieber for archiving, ménage à quatre with Rudy and his mistress. This novelistic language creates the masochistic spectator. Perhaps, in a bizarre twist, one might even wonder Where To Get Captains Car Keys In Dishonored amidst all this complex desire and cinematic artistry, though the true keys here are to unlocking the layers of Dietrich’s persona and Von Sternberg’s vision.
DISHONORED
(1931) ***1/2
Criterion Image: A-
A loose retelling of the ‘possibly true’ story of the ‘other’ WWI spy ‘Fraulein Doctor’ (not Mata Hari, see 1968’s Fraulein Doctor), Dishonored opens with Dietrich as an Austrian war widow turned streetwalker in a Viennese brothel/apartment house. Despair and gas-powered suicide are commonplace; cops barely register another body removal. But Dietrich, watching from across the street, endures. Her unwavering cool and patriotism lead to recruitment as agent X-27 by secret service man Gustav von Seyffertitz. She infiltrates a masquerade ball, exposes military treachery by Warner Oland, encounters Victor McLaglen’s clownish persona, and later, in disguise and cat-like stealth, secures information causing ‘thousands of Russian deaths.’ Posing as a maid at Russian border HQ, her disguise is so effective it’s initially hard to recognize her. Makeup mastery. She intoxicates a colonel with tag and drink, then spies on his papers. Her black cat betrays her (McLaglen recalls it from a window visit), but rules dictate no killing before dawn. A dissolve to snowy night woods implies sex (pre-code had its codes). Back at HQ, she enacts plans, echoing Hitchcock’s Lady Vanishes. Dietrich embodies the female James Bond. She and McLaglen, her Russian counterpart, are serpentine predators in a world of prey. Keen observers, always steps ahead. Yet, Dietrich errs, keeping uncoded orders in her pocket, found by McLaglen, who sets a trap at her frontline hotel. He too errs, accepting her drink, though she delays drugging him, seemingly resigned. She is unafraid of death, exciting him. “Hope you’re on my side next war!” – his equivalent of Brown’s “I wish I met you ten years ago.” He could kill her, but instead, McLaglen and Dietrich enable each other’s escape, like Batman and Catwoman, or perhaps Cold War KGB and CIA – swapping secrets, becoming double agents, getting drunk together. Why kill each other? Victory means unemployment.
This is Dishonored’s point of contention. Detractors, including my past self, were appalled by her deliberate sabotage, letting McLaglen’s leering spy escape interrogation, then refusing to defend herself at the tribunal. They want to sympathize, but she offers no explanation, only “I’ve led an inglorious life, a glorious death might be my good fortune.” She never escaped that Viennese suicidal mindset. I imagine her adding ‘scene’ – “a glorious death scene,” for in these films, no ‘happy ever after’ exists. Von Sternberg transforms us into frustrated lovers, yearning – like Johnny in BLONDE VENUS – for Hollywood endings, which sophisticated minds like Von Sternberg dismiss. We might desire X-27 back in action, meeting McLaglen post-war, like Constance Bennett’s spy in After Tonight, or Myrna Loy’s Fraulein Doctor in Stamboul Quest, or Suzy Kendall’s sardonic nurse in Fraulein Doctor, causing French soldier deaths with stolen gas. Instead, we get inspiring and downbeat, agonizing and cool.
The coolness stems from the JVS-Dietrich universe prioritizing film endings over happy ever afters – the lasting impression, the ghost image. X-27 knows masks define her (even no-makeup is a mask). Only in a fellow spy like Victor can she find an equal. Her nonchalance, even rapturous smile (left), facing death, manipulates the firing squad’s conscience, yet with cat-like detachment. She doesn’t truly want to continue. Dietrich in JVS films knows her 90-minute existence is finite, preferring a dramatic exit to mundane longevity. Her Dishonored death pleases her and frustrates the secret service (and us) – her refusal to explain the prisoner’s escape (“professional courtesy,” perhaps). Just as X-27 shed her prostitute persona, the firing squad offers escape from the movie itself. This desire to transcend mortal coils for a perhaps-not-even-love infuriates the patriarchy. And me! Throwing away power for oblivion for a smirking lover – infuriating! But the young officer’s outburst sounds childish. A new officer replaces him; Von Sternberg’s chilling laugh is last.
Only restarting the film immediately after the ending makes sense, a Mulholland Drive-esque Möbius strip. Snowy firing squad wall transitions to rainy courtyard, snow dawn to rainy evening – as the asphyxiated body is removed (“She didn’t even leave enough for the gas bill”). We first see her watching the morgue wagon, a nihilistic prom limo, knowing it’s for her soon. She knows the girl in the coffin is her future. But her code forbids suicide; death must be glorious, performed for weeping soldiers. This mask is permanent; removing it resets the show. In the Paramount logo’s Alpine space, Dietrich flies free, wanting to return ASAP.
The Criterion Blu-ray image is intoxicating. The expected upgrade curve ascends after Morocco’s so-so start. Her Ziggy Stardust masquerade attire sparkles like an obsidian, diamond-flecked sky. JVS’s meticulous screen canvas is realized – ball scene streamers and confetti, on two levels, glisten, each streamer distinct. X-27’s apartment attains cavernous 3D dream quality, Warner Oland’s traitorous general’s study gains masculine gravitas.
— See also: Decadence Lost: DISHONORED, SONG OF SONGS
SHANGHAI EXPRESS
(1932) – *****
Criterion Image: A-
“I wish you could tell me there’d been no other men.” “I wish I could, Doc. But five years in China is a long time…” Second only to His Girl Friday in lampooning decency, this film boasts a great pre-code Paramount jazz score, bullfrog-voiced Eugene Palette, Warner Oland, Gustav von Seyffertitz tortured for fan-switching (a grave offense in summer viewing), and Dietrich – at her loveliest – plus Anna May Wong at peak cool exoticism. Wong coolly returns a prim matron’s card, sharing a compartment with Dietrich, playing gramophone jazz, transforming their space into a stylish den, like Marianne Faithful and Anita Pallenberg on a Rolling Stones tour circa 1966-7, entering a dream Paramount 1932 via Donald Cammell time warp.
Oh, alternate reality saints, imagine a dozen films of Von Sternberg and Furthman with Wong and Dietrich luxuriating in train cars in silk gowns, jazz gramophone, stylish smoking, minimal dialogue, “professional courtesy,” wrecking souls along the China coast. Reverend Carmichael (Lawrence Grant) trails, guiding broken men to God, never judging, because even Shanghai Lily prays beautifully.
Carmichael’s transformation from “cargo of sin” ranting to defending Lily against Clive Brooks is the film’s most dynamic arc – action proving conviction. His gruff assurance, “God is on speaking terms with everybody,” moves deeply. Von Sternberg and Furthman masterfully subvert censors, colonialism, British prudery, then reverse course, Davidson siding with Lily, the train reaching its station. I watch it every summer, often more than once, fans blasting, rapt in midnight ecstasy.
(PS – 2017 re-viewing): Artifice and illusion as cinema and woman’s trade. Major Harvey’s banter with Dietrich is code, mantra-like, cigarette smoke incense. She’s exotic danger; his defense, frozen composure. She too hides feelings, aloof, like an image without boom mic shadow. (EK’s #4 top 25 film, after Big Sleep, The Thing, His Girl Friday).
(PS – 2018 re-viewing on Criterion Blu-ray): Blu-ray Shanghai Express marginally better than TCM DVD, deeper blacks, key moments enhanced. Compartment shadows glisten, Dietrich’s face creamy ivory. Opening/closing scenes, feathered boa and veil, reveal sharp facial planes, creamy cliffs. Eye twinkle, feather sheen intoxicating. Depth reveals frame layers – foot traffic, waiters, porters, background comic bits, years to discern.
ASIATIC EXTRAS (Blu-ray Extra):
In colonialist films like Shanghai Express, exotica reigns, art directors go wild with foreign décor and religious iconography. Exotica, using another country’s culture as ‘other’ décor, persists. Office Krishna statue amidst yoga class connection. Buddha head on desk, no Buddhist shrine visit. Jesus souvenirs for Buddhists? Dashboard Jesus, crucifix pencil holder? Christ as souvenir detritus? How would we react?
Kali Bahlu, “Oh Buddha, I’m so confused!”
The set’s first three films grow in beauty, Weimar decadence meets pre-Breen Hollywood opulence, pre-Hitler libidinal freedom. Fallen women – unlike saintly Joan Crawford or Loretta Young – are unashamed, not judging themselves for wrecking men, rejecting ‘moral’ condemnation unlike Loretta Edwards or Joan Crawford, or Mae Clarke in Waterloo Bridge. They resist poor treatment unlike Jean Harlow in Red Dust. Dietrich’s characters never renounce their past (Shanghai Lily’s only regret: bobbing her hair). Mae West said, “when women go wrong, men go right after them.” Only boys can be bad unpunished. But in these films, character matters. Lily, a high-end ‘adventuress,’ has integrity beyond ‘proper ladies’. She agrees to leave with Chang to save Harvey’s sight (“a man is a fool to trust any woman, but I believe a word of honor would mean something to you”), and would, but for Wong’s knife. Letting Harvey think she wanted to leave shows her daunting code. In exotica films (Todd Browning/Lon Chaney, Al Jolson), love means debasement, identity loss. In Dietrich films, love may claim lives, reputations, but never honor. Yorkshire pudding matrons and divinity doctors don’t register. Menjou’s masochistic suitor in Morocco understands, plays by rules. Wishing Cooper’s legionnaire “good luck,” he means it. “You see,” he tells guests, “I love her.”
We know the feeling, her absence is painful. “End” will swallow her, whether we beg or stand game-faced, like worthy lovers, like… her. Bye-bye, au revoir, auf wiedersehen, bis später. Bald, hoffe Ich, sehr bald.
Aber, bitte mit kein kindern?
end part 1
NOTES:
- Distant diegetic tribal drums – common in colonial dramas (W. Somerset Maugham adaptations, The Letter, Rain, The Narrow Corner, or inspired works, The Road to Singapore, Mandelay, White Woman, Red Dust). Signifying native uprising, chief’s son dying (“when the drums stop,” in Black Narcissus), or voodoo call to errant lovers, manmade howling wind or monsoon rain. 2. Recurring romantic triangle: handsome private, beautiful nurse/singer, coveted by superior officer or rich older man with transfer power, Prestige, Farewell to Arms, Friends and Lovers. 3. Lacan’s influence: pain of absence is love’s reward, objet petit a structures self, attainment leads to disillusionment, freeing you – Lou Reed’s words – to “find a new illusion.”
